


Every Little Memory

by mywholecry



Category: iCarly
Genre: Best Friends, F/F, First Time, Prom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-31
Updated: 2011-05-31
Packaged: 2017-10-19 22:50:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mywholecry/pseuds/mywholecry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You have to do this, Sam," Carly says, eyes wide. "Otherwise, you'll regret it for the rest of your life, and everything will go slowly but surely downhill, and suddenly you'll be on your third marriage and wondering, 'Why? <i>Why</i> didn't I listen to my good friend Carly when she told me to go to my prom?'"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Little Memory

Prom, Carly says, is the quintessential teenage experience, the ultimate event of their entire adolescence, and Sam cuts her off before she can say anything about turning from girls into women. Or anything worse, if that's even possible.

". . .do you really think I'm going to go to this?" Sam asks, because, really. _Really_. She hasn't put on a dress for a guy since she was fourteen and thought she had to. And the pictures that Carly has spread out over her floor have ruffles and beading and lace, and there's no way in hell that anybody is getting Sam into a corset.

"You have to do this, Sam," Carly says, eyes wide. "Otherwise, you'll regret it for the rest of your life, and everything will go slowly but surely downhill, and suddenly you'll be on your third marriage and wondering, 'Why? _Why_ didn't I listen to my good friend Carly when she told me to go to my prom?'"

Sam stares for a long moment.

"You're so mean, I don't know why we're friends," she murmurs, and: "I'm not wearing anything pink."

Carly grins at her. In the dim light of her room at night, surrounded by pictures of leering fashion models, it looks kind of evil.

 

*

 

"Did you go to your prom?" Sam asks, gazing up at Spencer from where she's sitting cross-legged on the sofa, holding a sandwich.

"That's my sandwich," Spencer says, then: "And yes, I did."

"Was it worth it? Did it change who you were? Was your world forever altered by some sort of prom night magic?" she asks, wiggling her free fingers, and Spencer sighs when she takes a bite. He sits next to her and makes a vague gesture with his hands.

"It was prom," he says. "I wore a tuxedo and danced badly, then Socko spiked the punch, and everything went kind of blurry. . ."

"A lot of your stories end like that," Sam says.

"True," Spencer says, "very true."

She huffs a little and hands him the rest of his sandwich, crossing her arms over her chest.

"At least you didn't have to wear a dress," she murmurs, and Spencer squeezes her shoulder and says, seriously, "At least you can pull one off."

 

*

 

Sam lets Carly drag her to the mall after school to pick out dresses for both of them. They crowd into a single changing room, and Sam trips trying to get out of her jeans, and she’s a little too aware of the long stretch of Carly’s back, her spine. She leans up against one wall in her bra and boxers and watches as Carly shimmies into different dresses.

Carly smiles at herself in the mirror, then tosses Sam a dress, says, “You have to pick one, too,” and, running her hands down her stomach, “does this make me look like a prostitute?”

The dress is pink, but Sam puts it on anyway. She’s agreeable like that.

“High class hooker,” she says, “maybe.”

“Right,” Carly says, absently turning to look at her, and her eyes go wide. “Oh, Sam.”

“I look like a douchebag,” Sam says, making a face. "Oh, god, I look like Melanie."

“You’re pretty. I mean, not that you’re not always pretty, but. . . you know what I mean. . .” Carly stands behind her and beams, shaking her shoulder a little. Sam looks at herself in the mirror, soft pink skirt cut just above her knees and floating out. It’s itchy and uncomfortable and not Sam at all, but Carly keeps making comments about how she looks a princess, a princess, Sam, and then she offers to buy it.

And, honestly, it's not like her mom's going to bother to get her one.

 

*

 

"I can't go to the prom with you," Freddie tells Carly, when he walks into the loft without knocking, "because I have a date."

"I didn't ask you," Carly says, smiling at him from where she's on the floor, trying to force Sam's feet into heels. Sam rolls her eyes.

"Who's desperate enough to take you?"

"Wendy," Freddie is beaming, "and I didn't even have to convince her."

"Or stalk her for a few years," Sam says, as she gets to her feet and wobbles impressively. She hasn't worn heels since. . .well, she can't actually remember when she last wore heels, all pageants aside, but Carly had informed her, voice completely serious, that princesses don't wear sneakers.

Carly walks beside her as Sam makes a slow, careful path across the living room, toward the refrigerator.

 

*

The day of the prom, Carly sits Sam down and fixes her hair, and Sam tries to sit still while she pulls out her makeup. She hasn’t let Carly do her makeup since the iCarly Awards (which they never did again, not after Spencer had a big sexual crisis over the European Fun Guys and wow, Sam really does not need to be thinking about big sexual crises while Carly’s hand is cupping her jaw, holding her still), and she tries not to flinch when Carly comes at her with with an eyeliner pencil.

Later, she sits behind Carly at the mirror and watches her carefully put on her own eyeliner, dark lipstick. She tries to get her to laugh and mess it up before they have to go meet their dates (Carly picked the first pretty guy that asked her, and Sam's going with the least ridiculous guy, the one she talks to in detention, occasionally.)

 

*

 

Sam has been sitting with Carly at the table for half an hour, watching their dates form some sort of bromance over organized sports and heavy metal and where did they find these people? She's not sure she can listen to them anymore when she kicks Carly under the table and says, very firmly, "My date sucks."

"Mine, too!" Carly says, outraged, turning around in her chair to face her. "And this music is terrible, and the gym smells like dead things. What kind of prom is this? I want my money back."

"I want the past two hours of my life back."

"I wish I'd let you steal something from your mom to spike the punch with," Carly says. "I hate my morals."

"I've always told you I hated your morals," Sam says, as the music changes to something slow and romantic, and she pulls a face at the DJ. She's contemplating hitting someone, anyone, maybe Freddie with his stupid tuxedo, slow dancing with his head on Wendy's shoulder, when Carly gets to her feet and offers a hand.

"Take off your heels and come dance with me," she says, decisively. "Dance with me, because I think my date wants to make sweet platonic man love to your date, and maybe we can salvage what's left of our prom."

Sam pretends her stomach doesn't flip a little at that as she toes out of the shoes and takes her hand. They wander off into the corner, farthest away from the speakers, and Carly puts her hands at Sam's waist, where the dress is pulled close to her skin.

"I have to lead," she explains, "because I'm taller," and Sam snorts.

"Right." She wraps her arms around Carly's neck, and they sway awkwardly, bare toes touching on the glitter covered basketball court. Sam keeps stepping on the hem of Carly's dress, and her palms are getting damp, clasped together, and Carly keeps smiling at her with their faces up close.

Sam wants to kiss her. Until this point, she's managed to keep from having any direct urges, just stupid girl feelings, and Sam doesn't deal with feelings, okay. She doesn't. But, right now, with Carly's fingers resting lightly on her hips, she wants to kiss her more than anything.

Before she can do anything, though, the song changes to some pop song, and they keep slow dancing for a few moments even though everybody else speeds up. Carly starts to giggle and pulls Sam into a hug, saying, lips close to her ear, "Thanks."

 

*

 

They leave a few minutes after that, after Sam steals half the cookies from the refreshment table and hides them in Carly's purse, and Carly takes her hand because Sam's legs are shaking from walking in heels on the sidewalk. They go to the Groovy Smoothie and sit at the same side of the table.

Okay, Sam is impulsive. She is. She's impulsive and stupid, and she doesn't think about her actions, but she can't even make herself do this. Carly's foot is resting up against her ankle, and she starts to say something when Carly touches fingers to the inside of her arm, running them up to the crook her elbow.

"I had a really nice time," Carly says, and then, a little weak: "I don't really ever have nice times with people that aren't you. Isn't that weird?"

"Yeah," Sam says, quietly, "that's kind of weird."

And Sam doesn't make the first move. They kind of kiss each other at the same time.

 

*

 

They make it back to the apartment, and Sam can't stop laughing. She has Carly's lipstick smeared over her cheek, and Spencer gives them a Look from the sofa, where he was waiting up for Carly to get back.

". . .wow," he says, and Sam looks over in time to see Carly blush. "Do I. . .do I, like, need to give you guys a talk?"

"No!" Carly says, tugging Sam towards the stairs. "There will be _no_ talking!"

"I hope not," Sam says, giggling into Carly's shoulder.

Upstairs, Carly locks the door behind them and crowds Sam up against the wall, kisses her softly. Their prom dresses are going to get torn, probably, because Sam grabs a little desperately at the back of Carly's dress as she arches up to bite her lip, lick inside her mouth. Carly makes these tiny gasping noises while they kiss, and Sam wants to undress her to get to skin, and they're going fast, faster than they should, but she can't help but feel that they've been leading up to this for awhile.

"Are we," Carly says, into her mouth, shaky, "are we going to. . ."

Sam's hand is sprawled over the zipper of Carly's dress.

"If you want to," Sam says. "I mean. . .it is prom night."

Carly pulls back enough to grin at her with teeth, mouth a little swollen, and her hands unfasten the hook at the back of Sam's dress so it sags over her shoulders. Eventually, they're both standing in nothing but slips, and Carly's smile is softer, more honest as they go to her bed. Every touch is hesitant, with the lights turned low, but it's kind of everything that Sam had been expecting. It's messy and wet, and they both end up stopping to giggle a lot, but in the end she can barely breathe until they both come down, exhausted.

"Oh," Carly says.

"Yeah," Sam mumbles, wrapping arms around her waist and burying her face in the warm space between her neck and shoulder. "We should totally do that again sometime."

"Yeah, like, _right now_ ," Carly says, but she's already half asleep, mouth resting against Sam's hair.


End file.
